GIFT  OF 

L 


-X 


tines  To  An  Ancient,  Live  Oak 
nd  Other  Verses  of  California 


:  By 

Laurence    Edward    Innes 


Copyrighted    1921 
By  L.  E.  lanes. 


L.  E. 
Books 

m 


'TO 


2014  South  Figueroa  Street 


Los  Angeles,  California 


LINES  TO  AN ^ANCIENT  LtVE:bAK 

The  branches  stood  from  an  ancient  tree 

Out  at  angles  phenomenally. 

The  limbs  were  gnarled  of  this  ancient  oak 

And  a  bit  grotesque.    The  sunlight  woke 

Its  lines  to  life,  and  strangely  made 

On  the  ground  beneath  odd  shapes  of  shade. 

But  while  I  looked  on  this  broken  tree, 

This  grave  Senor  whose  dignity 

Was  still  extant  in  his  ruined  state 

Where  he  stood  surrounded  by  flowers  elate, 

I  felt  indeed  that  this  Grand  Senor 

Was  gravely  guarding  some  old-time  door; 

The  door  had  vanished,  his  grandees  fled, 

But  he  kept  as  he  could  his  faith  with  the  dead. 


A  SUNSET  ON  A  SILKEN  SEA 

When  the  sun  and  the  sea  at  nightfall  came  to  a  place 
where  their  ways  must  part 

I  stood  on  the  strand  in  a  strange  sweet  land  that  clutched 
at  a  stranger's  heart; 

I  looked  on  a  blue  green  ocean  where  the  day  and  the  night 
had  met, 

Where  violet  tips  and  lavender  lips  and  a  million  jewels 
were  set ; 

I  looked  on  a  blue  green  ocean,  it  was  silk  like  a  fairy's 
gown, 

And  it  shimmered  away  in  the  dying  day  to  the  place 
where  the  sun  went  down. 

I  looked  on  a  blue  green  ocean  to  a  sky  dark  red  like  wine, 

And  the  surf  was  pink  in  its  curling  brink  and  the  hands 
of  Time  supine 

Lav  for  a  moment  idle  while  the  silken  soul  of  that  sea 


Lay  still  as  death  while  an  angel's  breath  was  drawn  in 
ecstacy. 

I  looked  on  that  wonderful  ocean  where  out  of  a  rainbow 
sky 

The  colors  there  had  crept  from  the  air  and  lay  on  its 
breast  to  die; 

And  ever  the  soft  sound  beating  of  waves  like  a  muffled 
drum 

Seemed  ever  to  say,  "God  rest  the  day,  for  the  stars  and  the 
night  have  come." 

I  looked  on  a  blue  green  ocean  in  the  tender  tide  of  the  day 

And  I  could  not  feel  that  the  thing  was  real,  so  subtle  had 
been  the  play 

Of  light  and  shadow  that  merged  in  heat  that  hung  in  a 
filmy  haze 

Where  the  sun  and  sea  clung  tremulously  in  the  parting  of 
their  ways. 


A  GARDEN  OF  DAHLIAS 

A  garden  of  Dahlias  bloomed  by  the  road 

And  the  traffic  went  by 

With  a  most  careless  eye, 

Oh  never  looking, — 

Well,  scarcely  looking — 

But  this  only  showed 

How  little  they  knew  of  the  red  and  the  brown, 

Of  the  purple  and  green, 

Of  the  el-e-gant  sheen 

Of  the  flowers  that  glanced  upward,  then  smiling  bent 
down. 

You  say  they  were  blown  by  winds  passing  by? 

Oh,  maybe  so, — well,  maybe  so — 

Oh,  I  really  don't  know, 

But  still  I  am  thinking  that  Dahlias  try 

To  behave  in  a  modest  and  ladylike  way, 

But,  oh,  how  they  sigh 

When  the  bold  passerby 

Fails  to  observe  their  most  gorgeous  array! 


THE  CHALLENGE  OF  THE  WINDS 

When  the  winds  blow  from  the  mountains  where  the  tips 

are  touched  with  snow, 
The  green  and  rolling  valleys  where  the  golden  fruit  trees 

grow 

Seem  to  shiver  with  the  portent  of  the  evil  days  ahead, 
Seem  to  feel  the  life  about  them  lying  cold,  and  gray,  and 

dead. 
In  the  great  leaves  of  the  palm  trees  does  the  ghostly  rustle 

run 

And  the  oranges  peer  fearful  to  the  warm  rays  of  the  sun; 
All  about  them  roses  flutter  with  a  sobbing,  catching  breath, 
And  the  heart  of  all  the  Southland,  throbbing  wildly, 

whispers,  "Death?" 

"Can  it  be?"  the  Pepper  mutters  to  the  Eucalyptus  tree, 
"That  the  soul  of  beauty  dieth?"   Then  they  look  toward 

the  sea. 
Come  the  warm  winds  softly  blowing  from  the  distant 

tropic  isles, 
Come  the  warm  winds  softly  blowing;    and  California 

smiles. 

And  from  the  laughing  ripples  of  the  high  ascending  sun 
Back  into  the  mountains  rush  the  cold  winds,  one  by  one; 
Then  the  rose  leaves  settle  softly,  then  the  poppy  lifts  its 

head, 

And  only  on  the  mountains,  where  the  snow  lies,  lies  the 
dead. 


ELDER  BROTHER  OF  THE  LAND 

Grave  Redwood  men  annointed  you  with  latin  name, 

And  yet,  what  panoply  of  state 
Could  make  you  greater  than  you  are, 

You  who  were  born  great? 
Long  years  before  I  passed  this  way 

You  cast  your  shadow,  and  the  shade 
Through  long  days  rose  and  fell. 

Ere  I  was  made 
What  wild  things  nested  in  the  heart  of  thee, 

What  rivers  ran 
In  rippling  freedom  at  your  feet? 

Ere  we  began 
O  silent  watcher  of  the  night, 

What  moons  have  shone 
When  watching  for  my  race  to  come, 

You  stood  alone! 


Wind  and  wave,  and  but  a  space  away 

The  rockbound  coast, 
Drone  out  the  passing  of  the  years, 

An  innumerable  host. 
Within  the  far,  high  reaches  of  the  sky 

A  whisper  grows, 
Great  branches  stir,  or  is  it  but  a  sigh 

For  us,  immutable,  with  woes? 
Giant  Sequoia,  tree  with  latin  name, 

High  priest  beside  the  human  gate, 
Lord  Bishop  of  the  splendid  hills, 

Untouched  by  fate, 
A  restless  human  humbly  comes  to  thee 

Where  you  in  benediction  stand 
And  asks  your  blessing  as  he  passes  through, 

A  younger  brother  in  the  land. 


CALIFORNIA:  THE  DAWN 

Now  comes  the  Painter  with  a  brush  sublime 

And  where  before  had  stretched  the  silver  sea, 
A  gray  ghost  ever  marking  time 

Against  the  pulse  beats  of  eternity, 
The  rich  warm  glories  of  the  day  descend 

In  gold,  in  orange,  and  in  crimson  lanes, 
Onsweeping  in  the  paths  that  never  end. 

Then  lavishly  as  one  who  scarcely  deigns 
Be  niggardly  he  sweeps  a  brush 

Across  the  great  broad  velvet  land. 
And  in  the  vivid,  quivering  hush 

That  runs  from  mountain  top  to  golden  strand 
One  feels  that  here  at  last  a  day  is  born 

That  no  black  painter  of  the  night  can  wipe  away : 
At  least,  so  I  have  felt  in  California's  morn 

That  here  upon  the  peaks  of  dawn  had  come  a  final  day. 


THE  PURPLE  PATH 

The  purple  path  is  a  royal  road  that  leads  you  on  to  a  gay 
abode 

Where  dreams,  if  they  don't  indeed  come  true,  come  as 
close  as  they  can  to  you; 

Where  you  pinch  yourself  as  you  view  the  skies  and  the 
gorgeous  gardens  stun  your  eyes, 

And  you  drink  the  ocean  and  eat  the  land  and  grab  some 
friend  by  his  outstretched  hand, 

And  say,  "Great  Scott,  but  I'm  glad  I'm  here,  especially, 
George,  at  this  time  of  year." 

And  then  in  the  Spring  you  take  your  grip  and  you  go  by 
train  or  go  by  ship, 

Or  whatever  it  is  that  will  take  you  there  when  you  MUST 
go  home:  and  then  grim  care 

Will  sit  on  your  shoulders  and  grin  and  jeer,  and  you'll 
wish,  old  man,  that  you'd  stayed  out  here, 

And  filled  your  pipe  and  sat  in  the  sun  where  the  purple 
dreams  pass  one  by  one, 

And  you'll  blink  your  eyes  and  you'll  often  feel   (when 
you  get  back  home)  that  it  wasn't  real. 

But  it's  ten  to  one  that  another  year  will  find  you  settled 
and  living  here, 

Believing,  I'm  sure,  as  I  do,  too,  that  purple  dreams  in  the 
sun  come  true. 


THE  DAY  IS  HUNG  WITH  HELIOTROPE 

The  day  is  hung  with  heliotrope, 

And  the  poppy  flames,  and  the  buds  of  hope 

Are  opening  here,  each  branch  athrill. 

Each  hour  that  passes  glows  and  dies 

With  joyous  face  to  the  radiant  skies : 

Each  night  that  follows  sounds  the  drum 

Of  still  more  cheerful  days  to  come. 

And  over  the  highways  autos  fling 

Their  whirring  wheels  that  forever  sing, 

And  down  the  valleys  and  up  the  hills 

The  road  lies  open  and  one  who  wills 

May  leave  Grim  Trouble  and  woo  Bright  Hope 

Where  the  days  are  hung  with  heliotrope. 


TORCH  AND  FLAME 

Here  where  the  feet  of  the  pulsing  world  are  pounding 
the  pavements  down 

There  stands  a  Mission  old  and  gray  in  the  heart  of  a  busy 
town; 

Faded  the  walls  and  dim  the  aisles,  but  here  by  the  grace 
of  God, 

Once  in  the  long-departed  past  the  feet  of  the  Padres  trod. 

The  sands  of  Time  through  the  hour  glass  run,  but  the 
thing  that  the  Padres  did 

Is  Torch  and  Flame  in  the  living  day,  and  its  light  can  not 
be  hid. 

Strange  is  the  musk  that  scents  this  spot,  as  though  those 
good  gray  friars 

Were  standing  here  in  their  shadow  world;  and  when  my 
spirit  tires 

I  come  to  stand  by  these  crumbling  walls,  and  I  think  of 
those  earnest  men 

Who  when  they  were  beaten  stood  four-square,  and  as 
earnestly  fought  again. 


ROW  ON  ROW,  THE  ORANGE  TREES 

Row  on  row  the  orange  trees  in  California  stand 

And  when  they  blossom  in  the  Spring  the  scent  upon  the 
land 

Is  pungent  in  the  nose  of  day,  and  on  the  wings  of  air 
Romance  is  blown  up  and  down,  indeed  most  everywhere. 
Row  on  row  the  orange  trees  in  California  stand, 

The  good  brown  mountains  at  their  back,  their  feet  upon 
the  land, 

And  overhead  the  bright  blue  sky,  and  to  the  West  the  sea, 
And  was  there  ever  such  a  land,  old  friend,  for  you  and  me? 


L'ENVOI 

Upon  the  face  of  day  the  curtain  falls. 

'Tis  night.    And  now,  regardless  of  the  one  who  calls, 

This  fact  remains :  our  friend,  and  all  she  was,  has  passed. 

You  may  dispute,  deny,  and  claim  the  day  at  last 

As  one  who  on  the  morrow  comes  again, 

Still  kind,  still  glad  to  mother  breeds  of  men ; 

Yet  still  this  fact  remains :  death,  grim  death,  has  come  our 
way, 

For  when  the  lady  lifts  her  veil— Ah  ha!  ANOTHER  day! 
And  so  the  final  word  that's  said  is  ever  this— GOODBYE ! 
Oh,  only  for  a  time  you  say  ?  Well,  also — so  say  I ! 


97 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


